by Vanessa Vale
Rough and Ready
More Than A Cowboy - 2
Vanessa Vale
Rough and Ready by Vanessa Vale
Copyright © 2021 by Bridger Media
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from both authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design: Bridger Media
Cover graphic: Wander Aguiar Photography
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Note From Vanessa
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Also By Vanessa Vale
About Vanessa Vale
1
HARPER
“You owe me,” Cam snapped.
Hearing my brother’s voice made me shudder. Bile rose in my throat. He'd started calling me two weeks ago, prompting me to his release date. I hadn't needed any reminder. The date was etched in my brain, and every time I looked at the calendar, I saw it creep closer.
Owe him? Owe him money for what he did? My hand shook as I held my cell to my ear. It didn't surprise me that he'd found me. Again. Even after a new cell number. I was stupid to think that would have worked to keep him away.
“For what?” I asked, my voice shrill. I tried to sound calm because he thrived on making me upset. He'd use it, prey on it, just like he was preying on me, even from behind bars.
“All that money you have is because of me.”
I paced to the windows that overlooked the busy street. I’d just moved into the apartment, so there were only basic white blinds for privacy, but I kept them up to let in the weak December sunshine. With darkness falling fast and knowing Cam was out there, even in jail, I tugged at the cord, pulled one down. Then the next and next down the length of the wall until I couldn’t see out, until I was in my little cocoon where nothing could get me. Yeah, right. I wrapped my arm about my waist, suddenly cold. Alone.
“You gave me to two thugs in trade for erasing your gambling debts,” I countered, running a hand over my face, through my hair. I’d pulled it back this morning into a reasonably artful twist for work, but with one swipe of my palm, I’d messed it all up.
I didn't want to rehash what he'd done because he was well aware of it, but he didn't think it mattered. Antsy, I spun on my heel and went to an open moving box sitting on my desk. A plant was stacked haphazardly on top of a bunch of office supplies, and I set it down with a hard thunk on the bare surface. It needed water after sitting neglected for over a week.
“Yeah, and nothing happened to you except getting a fuck-ton of Mommy and Daddy's cash.”
Nothing happened? I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. My palms were sweating, and a dull ache took up residence at the back of my head.
“They attacked me in an elevator.”
“They didn't rape you or anything.”
Rape was his baseline for whether something happened, and that made me sick. Everything about Cameron made me sick. As my older brother, he was supposed to be my protector, watching out for things like handsy boyfriends. He’d been a little shit since maybe the terrible twos and never grew out of it. We’d never once played together as kids, hadn’t even gone to the same prep school. We’d never bonded over video games or hours of sitting in the back seat on a road trip.
Instead, he considered me as more of a thing. A thing he'd given to two men. I'd escaped them physically unharmed, but they'd never been caught. The case was still open, and they were still out there. My brother wouldn't reveal their names, knowing he'd be dead if he snitched. I should've had Cam arrested, too, for his involvement, but no.
My parents had only thought of Cam and their reputation—which only enabled his drug-fueled habits. They'd forced me to keep quiet about his whole “sisterly sell-off,” and I had a huge stash of hush money in the bank as extra incentive to prove it.
I'd been too traumatized at the time to fight them. I would have given Cam up to the police once I stopped having constant nightmares and wasn’t too afraid to go outside, but he'd been dumb enough to be caught a few weeks later as a first time drug offender and went to jail anyway. All on his own. Nothing dear old Mom and Dad could do about that one.
“Leave me alone,” I said, my voice flat.
His upcoming release was the reason I'd moved. Again. He'd known where I’d lived, and with him getting out, I hadn't felt safe. Soon enough, he’d be able to show up with anyone. Anytime.
No, this place was safer than my old house closer to campus. I looked around. A modern, high-end building. Three floors, only three apartments with tight security. Not only did my landlord, Grayson Green—one of the most famous and successful MMA fighters—live on the top floor, but another guy who he trained had the unit across from mine on the second. On the ground floor, a whole gym full of guys who wouldn't hesitate to even the score for me. At least that was what my friend, Emory, had told me. I'd lived on the same block as her before she moved in with Gray, her fiancé.
“Leave you alone? Wire me the money, and I will,” Cam snapped. “And Harper—”
“Fuck you.” I ended the call, tossed my phone on the couch, not wanting to hear anything else from him. He'd spent almost two years preparing to destroy me again. Now that his release day was close, I knew the phone calls were just the start. Even after switching numbers, he still found me.
I paced the room, back and forth, weaving around boxes and randomly placed furniture where the movers had set it down. The apartment had an open floor plan, one big room except for the powder room, bedroom and master bath. The ceilings were high, the windows big and wall-to-wall. It was modern with lots of stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen, but it was warm. Safe.
I'd moved in a week ago and hadn't settled. I'd only put my bed together, tossed my clothes into the bedroom and found the coffeemaker. Hell, based on the damn call, I had to wonder how long I could remain. I'd easily avoided my parents since the incident, but we didn't run in the same social scene. I didn't spend time in the country club circle. I was too academic, too pedantic in my field of study for them. Instead of being a lawyer, I’d balked at the whole Lane family tradition and became a professor. To them, even with my PhD, it was a very small step up from working retail.
When Cam got out, would he be banging on my door harassing me? Or worse, on the street? On the quad at schoo
l? Could I stay in Brant Valley? Instead of settling into this great apartment, I wondered how long I'd be able to live in town. Hell, the state.
The call was all part of Cam’s plan to fuck with me. A warm up. I knew it, but I couldn't help but freak out.
The plant was in my hand and beneath the sink faucet before I realized what I was doing. I didn't even remember grabbing it or walking into the kitchen. I closed my eyes, breathed.
I didn't want Mommy and Daddy's cash. I didn't want my parents in my life any more than my brother, so I’d shoved the money in the bank where no one could touch it. My parents couldn’t get it back, and Cam couldn’t reach it.
They'd picked their son, with his cruel and dangerous acts, over their own daughter. And their money? I'd give it all away just to get Cam out of my life permanently, but I wouldn't give in. I wouldn't give him the hush money. And it was hush money.
No one could know that Cameron Lane the Third had an addiction problem who’d traded his own sister to drug dealers in exchange for wiping his debt clean. That kind of thing didn’t happen at the country club, and it certainly didn’t happen to my parents.
But it had happened to me.
Realizing I was drowning the plant, I turned off the water and pushed back from the sink. Closed my eyes and groaned aloud. My frustration was coming off me in waves. I was beyond climbing in bed and throwing the covers over my head. Beyond tears. There just weren't any more left. I’d stopped crying two years ago.
Going into the bedroom, I kicked off my heels, stripped off my skirt and blouse and dug out my gym clothes from the pile in the corner. I usually waited until later in the evening to work out, coming home from work and eating first, but I had restless energy to burn. I needed to run this angst off. I'd taken up running after the incident, my therapist said exercise was like a release valve on a pressure cooker.
I hadn't liked being compared to a kitchen appliance, but I related. I had been ready to blow, and running had helped. I hadn't made it far at first, walking more than anything else, but now, now I could run for hours, especially when I was upset. After slipping a hair tie around my wrist, I found my running shoes by the door, sat down on the wood floor, tugged one on, worked the laces with extra vigor.
I was safe. I knew it. Cameron was still in jail. The men who'd attacked me would have come after me again way before now if they'd still wanted me. The way I figured it, and the police assumed as well, was that they wanted Cam. If that were true, they could have him. I could only imagine how much he'd liked to be assaulted by them.
My apartment was safe. Gray had reassured me personally. Key cards were required for the elevator and emergency stairs, and only the four residents had them. Gray liked things secure. While he knew how to fight, and fight well, he only liked using his fists in the ring. Those were his words when he'd handed me my key card, which had been reassuring. Besides, he wouldn't have risked Emory's safety for anything. I’d lived down the street from her, where we’d been neighbors for the three years while I was teaching classes and finishing my dissertation for my PhD. After the incident, I hadn’t ever really felt safe. Emory had thought of me for the vacant unit, and she’d assured me it was secure.
I was safe.
That didn't mean I wasn't riled, wouldn't have nightmares about what happened on the elevator. Again. Cameron's few calls always brought them back. The anxiety always returned. Like now, when I wanted to run until my legs gave out, until, hopefully, I was too exhausted to even dream.
Finished with my shoes, I stood, grabbed my car keys, the building key pass and went to one of the piles of boxes. A few had to go to my office for my next semester Medieval Art class, so I'd use my angst to lug them to my car for tomorrow. I stacked three identical ones, heavy with books, on the moving dolly. Pulling the cart behind me, I went out into the hall, locked my apartment. Looked longingly at the stairwell door. I hated elevators. After what happened, it had taken six months just to ride in one again. Now, I'd take them, but only with others, those I trusted. Or in safe places. Like one I shared with only three other people.
There was no way I'd get down the stairs with the boxes, and I wasn't making three trips. Pulling the dolly in behind me, I took a deep breath, pressed the button for the ground floor.
Still, I dreaded stepping inside when the door slid open. I thought of the two men who’d been on either side of me, one turning to press me into the wall, his hands groping. The other had watched, laughed.
I pushed the memories away, stepped inside, pushed the button for the ground floor. Willed the sick feeling down. I needed to chill. To unwind. To forget about Cam. What he’d done. What he wanted now. I'd burn off my anger on the treadmill in Gray’s gym since it got dark so early. I wasn't running by myself outside at night. Not this time of year.
Exercise always worked. I could do this, I could get over Cam's call, the greasy thoughts of those men, how one had held me as the other ripped my shirt. How I'd kicked and fought, broke a nose. The blood. The panic. The debilitating need to have the doors open to escape. The stumble onto the marble floor in front of the bank of elevators. The cry for security.
I remembered the feel of their rough hands. Heard their voices telling me what they were going to do to me. Smelled their cloying cologne, the cheap cigarettes.
The elevator doors slid open. I took one step, and my breath caught in my lungs when I saw him.
Him.
Big. Broad. Tattooed. Thickly muscled. Chiseled jaw. Angry eyes. A palpable energy radiated from him. He looked mean. Bad. Ruthless. His hands were clenched in fists, and he stepped toward me, then froze when he saw me. His look changed then, the fury slipping away.
Still, he scared the shit out of me. For a split second, I thought he was going to hurt me.
No. This guy wasn't planning on dragging me to a hotel room and raping me. He was… trying to go upstairs. I knew this. My brain processed that he lived in the building or at least had a key card to call the elevator. But no. That didn't matter. Run! Run! were my only thoughts.
No. I couldn't look like a complete lunatic, couldn't let my fear rule me. I let out a deep breath and murmured, “Excuse me.”
He stepped back, hands raised in front of his chest, and I pulled the dolly with the boxes into the lobby area.
I heard the elevator close, felt the keen sense of panic start to wane. I stopped just inside the exterior doors, stared outside through the glass. At nothing. Breathed. Tried to calm my racing heart. Cam had done this to me. Made me a quivering mess, scared of everything. Even my neighbor.
Of course, the intense man was my neighbor. I'd met Gray and Emory. They told me Gray's fighter, Reed, lived in the other apartment on my floor, but I hadn't met him yet. I'd been in the gym twice so far—Gray offered membership with the rent—and seen a number of fighters working out in the ring as I ran on the treadmill but didn't know which one was him. The number of fit guys, punching, kicking and rolling around on the ground trying to choke each other was enough to make any woman's ovaries perk up and take notice. I had no idea sweaty men could be so arousing.
But none of them had anything on Reed. Even through my panic, I was attracted. Perhaps that was why I was so panicked. In that split second, I shouldn’t have desired the man who could do me harm. If I took away the layers of panic, I’d remember his height, at least a half a foot taller than me. Jet black hair had been cut super short, as if he used clippers himself instead of going to a barber. His skin was olive toned, and the start of a beard made his square jaw rugged.
Then there were the tattoos. Swirls of color and shapes crept up his arms, and I had no doubt more were hidden beneath his shirt. The overall effect screamed bad boy.
His dark eyes had widened in surprise at the sight of me, then a touch more after that, probably because I'd stared at him in horror. With his nose that had a crook in it and the splotchy red marks on his left cheekbone, he looked like he'd been in old fights and new ones. A snug white t-shirt had been plastere
d to his skin with sweat, the collar slightly stretched as if yanked a few times, and a pair of black workout shorts rode low on his hips. He was a fighter not a rapist.
I pushed open the outer door with more aggression than needed and tugged on the dolly, wheeling it to the back of my car. No doubt Reed thought I was insane. At the least, deathly afraid of him. My heart still hammered. My throat burned with the need to cry, but there were no tears. Cam had done this to me. Even after two years, even from a jail cell, he held so much power over me. He was still fucking with me. My work, my life, my relationships. When he got out…
As I stuffed the boxes in the trunk of my car, I had to wonder if I'd ever be free. And a guy like Reed? I wasn’t a damsel in distress worth saving.
2
REED
I had no idea what the fuck happened with my new neighbor. I had women stop in their tracks and stare at me with a quick eagerness that said they’d get on their knees for me in the nearest bathroom. I’d never had a woman look at me with such horror. Yeah, I was dangerous, but not to women. Not to her.
I'd just finished up a few rounds with a kid who wanted to be an MMA fighter, so I was a little sweaty, a little pissed. He’d sworn he was the next big thing and wanted Gray, also known as The Outlaw—who was the best trainer around, perhaps one of the best fighters even after his retirement—to check him out. Gray had put him through his paces in the ring with me. He hadn’t done it for the punk. Gray had known he wouldn’t cut it because of his piss-poor attitude alone. He’d done it for Emory, his fiancée, who worked with the kid’s dad at the hospital.
